Rhetta scanned the phone book then punched the keypad. She bounced her foot impatiently while the number rang several times. The call went to a recording. “The Cape Girardeau, Missouri office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is closed until further notice. Please call the St. Louis office at 1-555-FBI-1000. That would be 1-555-324-1000.”
Rhetta depressed the button to end the call. “The Cape FBI office is closed. Budget cuts, I guess. They directed me to a St. Louis number.” She dialed it.
After following several voice prompts, a woman asked Rhetta how she could direct her call.
“I’d like to speak with Agent Cooper. He was formerly in the Cape Girardeau office.” Rhetta coiled the curly phone cord as she spoke. She remembered chastising Woody for doing the same thing. When she noticed him glaring at her, she let go of the cord.
“Hold on, please,” answered the all-business female voice. Rhetta found herself listening to an instrumental version of Strangers in the Night. The tune finished. She’d just begun humming along to I Left My Heart in San Francisco, when a different woman came on the line. She was much less friendly. “Agent Cooper is not available. What is the nature of your call?”
“We spoke to him about a month ago at the Cape office. We’d like to deal with him, if at all possible. Tell him that Judge Randolph McCarter is calling.” Rhetta glanced over to her husband. He jerked his thumb upward, giving her a “thumbs up” approval. She hoped using her husband’s title might persuade the clerk she wasn’t a nut case.
“Hold, please.”
Rhetta found herself on hold without any music this time. After hearing a series of clicks and some tapping sounds, a third woman’s voice came on.
“I must advise you that this call is being recorded. Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes, that’s all right. May I please—”
“What is your name?” the woman said, interrupting Rhetta.
“Rhetta McCarter, Judge McCarter’s wife. I need to speak with Agent Coo—”
The woman began speaking before Rhetta could finish. Rhetta was about to let her know what she thought of the FBI representative’s phone manners, when she realized what the woman had just said.
“Agent Cooper is what?” She felt like a horse had kicked her in the gut. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone else. Thank you,” Rhetta said. “I’m sorry.” She hung up.
Eyes wide, she turned to Woody and Randolph. “Agent Cooper is dead. He was killed in a hit and run accident two weeks ago.” Rhetta stared at the phone. I need a cigarette.
“Why didn’t you ask to speak to someone else?” Randolph pulled up a guest chair to sit next to his wife.
“I guess I should’ve, but I was so shocked at the news that I just hung up.” Rhetta swiveled around to face Randolph.
“Cooper must’ve died right before Doctor Al-Serafi wound up in the Diversion Channel,” Woody said. He began pacing and rubbing his head.
Randolph twisted toward Woody. “Hold on, Woody, what are you thinking?”
Before Woody had a chance to answer, Rhetta blurted, “Randolph, maybe the two deaths are connected.” Her stomach fireball had exploded into a volcano. She fished in a desk drawer and came up with an economy-sized bottle of chewable antacid tablets. She popped several into her mouth.
“Sweetheart,” Randolph said, eyeing the bottle. “I think we’re all jumping to conclusions.”
“I think Randolph’s right.” Woody rubbed his head. “After all, how could the two deaths possibly be related?”
Woody’s head rubbing belied his protestations. Woody was worried, too.
Rhetta attempted to keep everybody calm. “Maybe we’re jumping to conclusions about all of this.”
Turning to her husband, Rhetta said, “What do you make of that schematic? Why would that drawing be in Al-Serafi’s car?”
Randolph poured out two antacids tablets for himself, popped them into his mouth, and began chewing. “I don’t know the answer to that, but I have an idea. I’ll ask Billy Dan Kercheval about it. I’ll see if he can identify the schematic.”
William Daniel Kercheval, Billy Dan to everyone who knew him, was the newly retired General Manager of the maintenance division of Inland Electric Co-operative. He’d been a longtime friend of Randolph’s. They’d gone to high school together. Never remarrying after a divorce many years earlier, Billy Dan had retired to a secluded wooded property west of Marble Hill, about thirty miles from Cape Girardeau.
Randolph said, “If Billy Dan confirms this is something unusual, we’ll call the FBI again. We may have something concrete on our terrorist theory.”
Woody nodded slowly. Returning to the safe, he withdrew both the enlarged copy and the web picture he’d printed, leaving the original schematic tucked away. He folded the papers deftly into a manila envelope, which he handed to Randolph. He returned to his desk and quickly pulled up the Missouri State Highway Patrol crash website.
He quickly located the information. “The highway patrol reported Al-Serafi’s death as an accident. That could be why the document was still in the car. No one searched it.”
The office door opened and a young couple trundled in. The man lugged a carrier holding a sleeping baby. Woody smoothed the front of his shirt and strolled over to greet them.
“Agnes Dalton-Evers with Tri-County Realty told us to see a man named Woody about getting pre-qualified for a home loan.” The thin, blue jean clad father glanced from Randolph to Woody. His short, round wife nodded, her blond curls bouncing. It was easy to see that she had yet to shed the baby fat she’d accumulated while pregnant. Woody smiled, introduced himself, and escorted the young family to his desk.
Rhetta left them to business and accompanied Randolph to his truck. She leaned into the driver’s window after he’d tucked himself behind the wheel.
“Maybe this,” Randolph said, holding up the envelope, “isn’t anything to worry about, but I’ll go and see Billy Dan first thing tomorrow.” He laid the envelope on the seat next to him.
Rhetta touched her husband’s cheek. “Billy Dan can probably clear a lot of this up. I have a bad feeling about that schematic, but maybe it’s just that—a bad feeling.”
Randolph stretched up out of the truck window to kiss her, then turned the ignition key. The Artmobile roared to life.
Rhetta climbed into her car and sat, staring at the console. Her craving always intensified under pressure.
CHAPTER 8
While maneuvering through the late afternoon traffic leading westward out of Cape, Randolph considered the envelope beside him. By the time he reached the edge of town, instead of turning south toward home, he continued straight to Marble Hill. Feeling an inexplicable sense of urgency, he didn’t want to wait before talking to Billy Dan. Randolph assured himself that meeting Billy Dan would dispel any wrong ideas that the three of them had formed.
Randolph was perpetually skeptical, never one to jump to conclusions. Knowing that Al-Serafi possessed a schematic for a substation generator and had died in an unusual accident made the revelation about Agent Cooper’s death more significant. Randolph, like Rhetta, wasn’t a big believer in coincidences. Nevertheless, all of that didn’t necessarily add up to a terrorist plot, either. What would be the point? How would it happen?
A glance at his watch reinforced his hope of finding Billy Dan hanging out at his new office, Merc’s Diner, enjoying a late afternoon cup of java. Since his retirement, Billy Dan told Randolph that he followed a daily routine, always making his way to Merc’s in the afternoon in order to catch up on the gossip and drink coffee.
Randolph pulled up in front of Merc’s, a converted Tastee-Freez built alongside Crooked Creek in the 70s. Initially constructed as a small walk-up ice cream stand, Merc, short for Mercury, Leadbetter bought the business fifteen years earlier and added on a large dining room and full kitchen. He re-opened as a full service restaurant. Being situated practically on the creek bank, the cedar sided building had suffered thro
ugh a few floods. Each time high water had invaded his building, Merc rebuilt and his loyal customers always returned.
Randolph found a large sycamore and parked under it, hoping the shade would keep his truck cool. Once inside Merc’s, he headed straight for the smoking section in the back where he guessed he’d find Billy Dan. Glancing around, he spotted two old geezers dressed alike in faded green overalls, one sitting on either side of Billy Dan. The three occupied an oversized round table, discussing, drinking coffee, and polluting the air with an abundance of cigarette smoke.
“Judge McCarter, are you lost?” Billy Dan waved and called out upon spotting Randolph. Randolph waved back and headed their way.
“May I join you?” He nodded at the two old gents and waved the smoke aside. Randolph wondered why Merc didn’t install a better exhaust fan.
Billy Dan motioned to an unoccupied seat. The old timers downed the last of their coffee, stubbed out their cigarettes, slapped a couple of bills on the table, and stood. One of the men stuffed a half-smoked cigarette into his overall pocket.
“We gotta git goin’,” the first geezer said, nodding to Randolph and jamming a faded ball cap on his head. He mumbled, “Good to see ya, Judge.”
“There’s catfish waitin’ fer us at Taylor’s pond,” the second one chimed in. He grinned, revealing several missing teeth.
Randolph was well acquainted with the two. He’d thrown both of them in jail for poaching. He appreciated that they weren’t keen on sharing a table with him.
“I didn’t mean to run off your cohorts.” Randolph jerked his thumb toward the departing figures. “One of ’em left a cap here,” he added, picking up a well-oiled, saggy John Deere cap and setting it to the side. He pulled out a chair and joined Billy Dan, sliding aside the used coffee cups.
Billy Dan shook his head. “You know the Hefner brothers. They have no use for politicians, preachers, or lawyers.”
“Especially judges, right?”
Billy Dan grinned. “They still don’t see eye to eye with the Conservation Commission.” He signaled for a waitress to come to the table. “I haven’t seen you in a good while, Judge. I hear you’re a successful artist these days. I enjoyed that piece about you in the paper.”
Randolph shook his head and smiled. The newspaper had done a feature article about his art career and had called it Trading the Bench for a Brush. The glowing praise for his art had embarrassed him.
Billy Dan stubbed out his cigarette and waved his empty cup at a nearby waitress. “Kathy, honey, can you bring the coffee pot? And bring a clean cup for Judge McCarter.”
The slim brunette wearing a nametag on her left breast that said Krista arrived with a steaming stainless steel pitcher of coffee and a heavy ceramic mug. She set both on the table and whisked away the used cups. She swiped the top of the table with a damp cloth that reeked of bleach.
“Need cream and sugar?” she asked, now wiping more vigorously. She turned her large brown eyes to Randolph.
“Yes, thanks.” Randolph smiled at her, holding his cup up out of the way. She retrieved a miniature stainless-steel pitcher of cream from a nearby table.
“Help yourself to the coffee.” She beamed a megawatt smile back at Randolph while turning her back on Billy Dan. She trotted away to her other customers.
“Her name is Krista.” Randolph stirred fresh country cream into his coffee while enjoying the view as she sashayed away.
“I know. I call her Kathy just to irritate her.” Billy Dan grinned and poured himself more coffee.
“One of these days she may pour hot coffee all over you, just to irritate you back.”
Billy Dan chuckled.
Turning to Randolph, he asked, “What brings you all the way to Marble Hill?” He sipped the piping hot coffee carefully before setting his cup down.
“I have something I want to show you.” Randolph pushed his own cup aside. He emptied the contents of the manila envelope on to the table. He slid the enlarged copy of the schematic across to Billy Dan but left the photo Woody printed of the transformer face down.
Billy Dan scrutinized the enlarged copy for several minutes, turning it first one way, and then another. “Where did this come from?”
“Before I tell you about that, can you first tell me what we’re looking at?” Randolph reached for his cup and blew across the hot beverage before sipping carefully.
“Sure. It’s a schematic.” Billy Dan squinted at the drawing. From his shirt pocket, he removed a pair of wobbly, wire-frame reading glasses with a broken earpiece. He attempted to balance them on the bridge of his nose. Holding the glasses in place with one hand, Billy Dan lowered his head to scrutinize the drawing.
Randolph turned over the photo that Woody had printed and aligned it next to the illustration Billy Dan was examining. “I already know that much. I also know that it’s a schematic of a transformer. What I need to know is what kind of transformer?”
Billy Dan used his free hand to reach into another shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He tapped the box and a fresh one slid out. He fished into the same pocket that had held the glasses and produced a lighter. With the cigarette securely lit, he inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, he whistled softly and let out a long stream of blue smoke.
Placing the cigarette in the ashtray, Billy Dan drummed his leathery fingers on the table. Then he angled forward. “This is the type of transformer that we use in all of our power substations.”
Randolph noted that Billy Dan used the possessive “we,” apparently still associating himself with his longtime employer.
Billy Dan turned the drawing around toward Randolph. “What does this mean?” He pointed to the strange symbols. “What’s this writing all over it?”
“I think that writing is in Arabic, and I’m not sure what it means.”
Billy Dan picked up the drawing and fiddled with his glasses to study the paper again.
“See these areas with Xs on them?” Billy Dan said, holding up the photocopy. He pointed with his right index finger. “These are strategic oil points. Why are those marked?”
Randolph had previously noticed dark marks on all the areas that Billy Dan pointed out. “That’s part of the mystery. Tell me, what do you think those marks signify?”
Billy Dan shook his head. He reached for his cigarette and inhaled, then stubbed it out. The partially extinguished butt gave off an acrid smell. “The only significance to me is that those areas are lubricating points. If a power transformer developed a leak or a problem of any kind at any one of these points, then that transformer could go dry and possibly burn up.” Billy Dan set the copy down then tucked the glasses back into his shirt pocket. He picked up his coffee and sipped.
“What happens when a transformer burns up?” Randolph asked.
“We replace it.”
“Can’t it be fixed?”
Billy Dan’s cigarette continued to send a spiral of smoke into the air above them. He shook his head. “We’d have to replace it. Once a transformer burns out, that’s all she wrote.”
“But you have backup transformers in case one fails?” Randolph bent over the drawing. The men were inches apart. He wondered if Billy Dan noticed him sweating. “Then all you’d have to do is hook up a new one, right?”
Billy Dan glanced around. He lowered his voice. “No, we don’t have backups. We’d have to bring one up from Arkansas.”
Randolph blinked. “How long would that take?” He stared into Billy Dan’s gray eyes.
“Three days.” Billy Dan held up one finger. “One day to drive down and get it.” A second finger joined the first. “Another to install it,” he continued. A third finger formed the complete salute. “A third day, or part of a day, to get the power switched over.”
Billy Dan picked up his foul-smelling cigarette and firmly ground out the remains. “Ordinarily, we switch one substation to another to pick up the load and never have any down time if a transformer does go out. It happens automatically.”
/> “You don’t keep any spares on hand?”
Billy Dan chuckled. “Spares? Heck no. They cost a fortune. Besides, we don’t ever have problems with transformers actually failing. We inspect them regularly. With routine maintenance, they last a helluva long time. In fact, we haven’t had to replace one in over six years.” Billy Dan reached into his shirt pocket in search of his pack of cigarettes. He slid one out, and held it, unlit. “That one only needed replacing because lightning hit the chain link fence around the substation and arced across the transformer, causing a fire in the ‘B’ assembly.” He pointed to the schematic. “Here.” The spot he identified also had an X over it. “In fact, we usually get our replacements from Paragould. It’s not far, so shipping is reasonable. Even at that, they only keep one or two on hand at any given time.”
“How many manufacturers are there?”
Billy Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “Only two—one’s in Paragould, and the other’s all the way out in Albuquerque.
“Does the one in Albuquerque keep more on hand?” Randolph removed his stare from the unlit cigarette, to peer at Billy Dan. He’d never realized until then how much his friend smoked.
“No, neither place warehouses or stocks these transformers. They build them when we order them.” Billy Dan reached for his lighter, fired up the cigarette, leaned back, and took a long drag. “There isn’t much call for these transformers, even nationwide. Even if every electric company who uses these would replace them, you’re still only talking a few thousand.” He blew a long column of smoke toward the ceiling. “Both of those factories focus on building whole house and portable gas generators ’cause that’s where the bulk of their business comes from. They only build these transformers as a service to the electric companies.”
Randolph took a long drink from the glass of water that Krista had brought him. His mouth had gone very dry. Everything Billy Dan said reinforced the dread settling in his gut. He swallowed more water, forcing the acid back down.
“If several transformers went down at one time, how long would it take to get replacements to the substations?” Randolph watched Billy Dan scrutinize the sheet.
They both stared at the drawing while Billy Dan, running his hands through his short silver hair, shook his head, obviously trying to calculate. “Longer than a month, probably more like six weeks.”